Hawk
by Mei Zhen
Summary: Love is back in one way or another. Sarmatian knights return as horses. But what do Irish princesses return as? (Tristan and Isolde)


Sometimes, she'd wanted to fly.

But Tristan always told her that it wouldn't be in this life. He'd always thought that in his life he'd been either very lucky, or very wretched. Isolde, the most beautiful princess that Ireland had ever seen, loved him with all her heart. But the bad part was, she was betrothed. She'd been from the moment he'd first seen her.

To no other than King Mark of Cornualles. Tristan also remembered this constantly, as some sort of penitence. Mark had called Arthur and his knights to escort his bride to their lands, from where he'd take her, and so they'd done. But things were never easy.

They'd first seen Isolde on the crest of a green hill, bidding farewell to her dear Ireland with one last long gaze. The white figure in the distance had walked to them with her pristine dress flowing in the air, and her pale gray eyes scanning the knights that would take her to her new land. Her long, smooth red hair fell about her waist, and got rumpled with the wind. But she did not seem to care too much if her appearance was not that of the princess they'd expected.

She was not a warrior, Tristan could tell that. She'd probably never held a sword, Bors had said – of course Arthur had whacked him over the head for the double meaning. But it seemed a matter of fact that she'd never killed, and that she had no intention of doing so.

Arthur had told them about the delicate creature that Isolde was. Of her pale skin and her freckles, of her clear eyes and fiery hair. But of course, none of those descriptions had done her justice... as far as Tristan was concerned. The other knights had greeted her and smiled, probably happy to have a peaceful mission for once. And she hadn't given them anything in return but kindness and solace. She listened to Bors speak fondly about his family, and Galahad about the peace and purity he searched. Dagoned tried to teach her how to hold an axe... and she'd ended up dropping it on his foot with a million apologies- that he accepted. She'd heard Lancelot tell her about his conquests and Arthur about his plans. Even Gawain had told her about his lack of bravery to tell the one he loved how he felt.

Of course Tristan knew Gawain meant Galahad all along... but that's another story. The thing was, they all had something to tell her, because she listened. But Tristan? He who never had anything to say if it wasn't a warning? Isolde watched him from afar while he tracked the safest way back home, while he readied everyone for battle even when they didn't need it. Something in Tristan told him to remain busy and not have his mind set on the princess. Because, nothing good would come out of this –or so he told himself.

But every day the journey was harder. Not because there were any physical difficulties, but because that feeling, that knot in his stomach was every day heavier. And Isolde had observed him too, he could feel her eyes on him. Always searching, always alert. Hardly missing a single one of his movements, sometimes following him. Hearing her talk with the others while he remained silent proved to be Tristan's best distraction.

Until he'd realized he loved her. During the long journey, he stole glances at the princess, only to find her already watching him. And keeping her eyes on him for longer than he could remember. Somehow, she'd always find him in the distance. It didn't matter where they were, or how far away he was.

She had the eyes of a hawk.

Several nights before they reached Hadrian's wall, Tristan had been watching out while the others slept. Isolde had appeared from the darkness, pale and ethereal, bringing a huge blanket to him with the excuse that it was a chilly night –they both knew this was a lame excuse because it was August. She'd sat by him and watched the forest for a while with him, scanning every corner with her eyes. And soon he'd found himself watching her rather than the forest.

After telling himself that this was the most absolute foolishness he'd ever come across, she'd reached out to take his hand in hers as they stood guard. And that had repeated itself many other times, along with some talking that didn't have any more meaning that calming each other down after a loud noise (very often it was only Bors snoring- but it was still a frightening earsplitting racket). But Tristan never said anything. In his mind, it wouldn't make a difference if he told her about his thoughts or not.

But he started having the suspicion that she could read them.

She'd watched him the last night of their journey, with those pale eyes that were anything but cold. Bors had been trying to get the princess to sing them an Irish song, and after she obliged, Arthur talked to her about Mark. The husband she'd have once she got home, the one who'd only let her spend one more night in Arthur's company. Isolde knew that too well, and during the long night she'd wandered about what she'd do. No, that was not a fate that she'd like. Being locked in a castle, forced to love someone she'd never quite grow to love was a worse fate than being killed by the woads.

In that time with the knights, she'd fallen in love with Tristan. And even if she cursed herself, it was too late now to go back and change anything. She remained silent despite the laughter around her. For the others, it was a moment of joy to know that their mission was practically over, and that they'd been successful. Isolde envied their happiness and wished to share it... but she was unable.

She'd risen from her spot between Bors and Galahad that night, saying she was tired and would go to sleep after taking some fresh air. She walked under the moonlight for a while, never too far from the others, but never too near either. And she'd seen him.

Tristan watched the forest again, like every night. But as she approached, he slowly turned to her. It was not a noise she'd made. It was her presence.

''You needed to clear your mind.'' Tristan said. It wasn't a question. ''I wanted that too.''

''Is there something that troubles you too?'' She asked him, her face merely inches away from his. ''I will lose all my freedom after tomorrow's night. I will no longer belong to myself, but to a man I have never seen. Is that your problem too?'' She said with a sad smile that hid some sarcasm.

''Maybe. Who do you place your bets on?'' He decided to joke too.

''Lancelot.'' She quickly replied, her smile widening. ''I'd be terrified too.'' It took Tristan all his willpower not to laugh out loud. Instead, he just smiled almost imperceptibly, just for her to see. She'd seen the amusement in his eyes, and her smile did not shift. A smile was all she could offer him, Tristan pondered.

She stood barely a few inches shorter than he was, just staring back with the roaring laughter in the background. She'd leaned closer towards him, and even if his mind was saying that this was a bad idea, his body decided it was time for anarchy.

So he kissed her. He put an arm around her waist and reached out to stroke her hair as she –surprisingly- returned the gesture. He pulled away (expecting a slap) and looked at her longingly. Isolde's eyes were tearful and misty, sharing his gaze. This could never be, and they were both sure now.

''Not in this life.'' She'd said between sobs that same night with his arms wrapped around her.

''Then in the next.'' He said. ''Sarmatian warriors are said to come back as horses. Who knows what they may say about Irish princesses.'' He tried to sound optimistic, but failed miserably.

''I will never leave you.'' She said, and lifted her face from his shoulder. ''We'll watch the forest together in this life and in the next. We'll be the eyes of the knights, their solace for a reason or another. Nothing will make me desert you, nothing.'' Her voice was hardly anything more than a whisper. If the knights heard them, Arthur would be tempted to do something about it, and that would mean war against Mark.

''Not even death.'' Tristan finished for her. ''Many lives may come and be wasted, but in the end I will find you. I always will.'' They embraced tightly and she left for her tent without looking back. And he returned too after a while... to his suspecting friends.

More like, to his knowing friends.

When they finally reached Hadrian's wall, Isolde had locked herself in her chambers. Alone and with the windows open, hoping to fly away and get lost in the distance, never to be caged again. In the late hours Tristan had sneaked into the room, all of the knights knew. But by when daylight came, Lancelot himself had come to wake them up from their slumber in each other's arms.

''Mark is here.''

Words had never seemed so hurtful.

The knights had watched Isolde part with her soon-to-be husband, knowing that she already belonged to one of them, and that was something no one would ever be able to take from her:

Love.

But a servant knew as well... and so soon the rumor reached Mark's ears. He'd slaughtered Isolde himself calling her a traitor and a whore. The letter of her death reached Arthur soon after, and he brought the devastating news to his knights. Tristan's eyes remained sad from then on.

Only after a young hawk came to him while he paced the forest was he able to smile again, as ever so mysterious and silent, but smiling after all. Something in the smile he shared with the hawk gave the other knights a reason to think that they shared a secret.

During his talks to the bird, sometimes the knights thought he'd called her Isolde. But all that was there, was a hawk. Tristan smiled at their puzzled faces... and the other knights, thinking they'd just gone crazy, decided to forget it. But Tristan and his hawk remained the best team Arthur would ever have to keep watch over them. And he was happy.

Because now Isolde could fly.


End file.
